


to the point

by ignitesthestars



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Companionable Snark, F/M, Injury, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha gets a little bit stabbed, and Steve argues with her about who gets to stitch her back up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the point

Steve would like to think that they put some sort of thought into the house they break into, but the truth is that Natasha’s busy being stabbed, and he’s busy definitely not freaking out about it. Whatever they are to each other these days, she deserves better than him losing his head.

So he at least makes sure that there’s no car in the drive and he can’t hear anyone in the house before he kicks the door in.

“Not such a boy scout after all,” Natasha snorts. Pain threads her voice, but she makes it sound like an annoyance, and not like she’s got an extra hole in her.

“You people know I was never actually a scout, right?”

The house smells like cats. He has broken an old lady’s door. Steve carefully files that to the ‘things to care about later’ part of his brain, and picks a direction  that the first aid kit is likely to be in. Assuming the house owner in question keeps their first aid kit in the bathroom.

Assuming there’s a first aid kit at all

“Obviously. Scout would have found a way to stem the blood flow and keep his shirt on. Not that I’m complaining.” She raises her eyebrows at him. “You know I can walk, right? Knife in shoulder, not in leg.”

“I run faster than you. That’s how we got here.”

“You’re not running now.”

They’re not. And Steve puts her down, because as reluctant as he is to let her go, it’s not helping. He sets her on the edge of the bathtub, not missing the appreciative scrape of her eyes over his torso as he starts to rummage through the cupboards. His eyes roll over the top of red cheeks, because even after months of whatever-they-are-ing, she still has that effect on him.

“Didn’t you just get stabbed?” he points out, following up with a sound of triumph as he finds a first aid kit.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” She shifts the balled up t-shirt at her shoulder to a less blood-soaked angle, and Steve supposes he should be grateful that it isn’t soaked through. “Here, give me that.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Natasha,” Steve says. “You’re not going to sew up your own stab wound.”

“Steve,” Natasha says. “How do you think I’ve survived this long?”

_Better health benefits than being a fugitive in one hundred and seventeen countries provides,_ he thinks, but that’s not helping either, and is only half true. The key to winning with Natasha, he’s learnt, is to just not argue with her, so he turns his attention to the first aid kit, unzipping it.

“What the–”

It’s not a first aid kit. It is, Steve discovers, after tilting his head to the side and reading the label, a ‘Deluxe Field Tactical Emergency Surgical and Suture Kit’. He’s not complaining, but–

“Thank god for capitalism,” Natasha says, and her voice is dry as dust. “You know how to use one of those things, super soldier, or are you ready to let me handle this yet?”

Steve rips open a pack of alcohol prep wipes, cleaning the instruments with one before gesturing at her to drop the shirt from the wound so he can have a look. The bloodflow is a sullen, oozing thing, which is better than the moment after the knife had gone in; he gestures at her to take off her own shirt.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Natasha.”

She sighs, carefully peeling the ruined material off. “Lighten up, Steve. It’s barely a scratch.”

He could point out that any wound that needs sutures is, by definition, not a scratch. But he has to clean it and it’s going to hurt, so he holds another prep wipe up, waiting for permission.

“You big lump,” she says fondly, reaching out to caress his cheek. He flashes her a grin, ducking his head to work on her little scratch.

She doesn’t make a sound. Not even when he starts with the needle, marching quick, neat stitches in a line through her skin. But her hand slips to his shoulder and stays there, and he doesn’t imagine the way her fingers flex, once or twice.

“Okay." He sits back. “I think that’s it.”

The breath she’d been holding leaves her in a careful, measured exhale. She withdraws her hand, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and methodically finishing up. “Not bad,” she admits. “Where’d a super soldier learn to patch people back together?”

“Got walked through it a couple of times.” He starts to clean up, spotting a tiny floral trash can near the door. “Happened that I was the last one standing to put everyone else back together. Plus, I already knew how to sew.”

“Look at that. I got me a man who can do it all.”

_Couldn’t save you from getting stabbed,_ but - he has to cut that thought off at the knees. This is what they do. She’s going to get hurt, just like Sam and Sharon and pretty much everyone he’s worked with since he conned his way into the army could get hurt.

“You ever think we’re in the wrong line of work?” he asks, holding his hand out to her.

She takes it. “Not lately.”


End file.
